


History Rewritten

by sans_patronymic



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-War, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-05 10:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: 1920--The Great War has ended and Sherlock Holmes has settled into country retirement with his lover and his brother. What could possibly go awry?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rewriting History](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12607944) by [rachelindeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelindeed/pseuds/rachelindeed). 



August, 1920

We are nearing the end of our first summer at Hollinghurst Cottage. It is still no small source of amusement for me that so spacious an abode holds the diminutive title of “cottage”, nor that I should ever come to dwell in such a place. Yet here I am. Here, in fact, are the three of us, by which I mean myself, my brother, and my dear Watson. We are an unusual household, no doubt, but we have managed to keep on our latest housekeeper for two whole months and counting, which surely means we are not  _utterly_  hopeless.   


The real trouble, you see, is my brother, Mycroft. When it was first put to him that he should join Watson and myself at Hollinghurst, rather than be left moldering in his old rooms in Pall Mall, doubtless he was surprised. Nevertheless, he put up no resistance. The darkness of the War continued to permeate his mind and manner. He had little opinion about the relocation, about Sussex, about our home. So long as his cook, Mrs. Burns, could be persuaded to join us, he didn’t give a fig about the rest of it. And so it was for the first five months at Hollinghurst.

Since then, I’m afraid, the country air has done wonders for him. Everyday he returns a little more to his former self, by which I mean, everyday he is a bit more unbearable than the day before. He has regained his yen for things to be  _just so_ , and it is beginning to dawn on him, I think, that he has been well and truly uprooted from his  _just so_. 

His retaliation has taken the form of complaints. The light through the library windows comes at the  _wrong_  time of day. The floor in the morning room is slanted. The garden patio is of an unsuitable size for a summer tea. The lookout point at Beachy Head is too far to reach on foot, and the road is too unpleasant to go by auto.  

Thus far, his attitude has cost us two housekeepers and a flight of parlor maids. Our village is not a large one, and we are rapidly developing a reputation as an altogether hostile place of employment, a development that has been particularly difficult on Watson, who has always been—and rightly so!—so well-regarded that to be anything less-than is quite a blow. I should have been quite willing to forgive my brother his idiosyncrasies indefinitely, were it not for how keenly it affects Watson.

Last week, as I caught the look of shame and embarrassment on my Watson’s face while Mycroft chastised our newest girl for drawing the shades too noisily, I concluded something had to be done. If not for myself, nor for Watson, then at least for the sake of poor Emily, who deserves much better than to be target practice for Mycroft’s ire. I resolved then and there to give my brother a straightening-out before we found ourselves blacklisted by every domestic in the county.   


My opportunity came the next day, when, as fate should have it, I found my brother in a most uncommon position: taking his coffee alone on the garden patio. The afternoon was bright and languid as only summer afternoons are. The air was full of the hot, cacophonous sound of insects. The garden brimmed with colorful intensity; the flowers, the trees, the distant fields all at the height of their beauty. The cat, who is neither ours nor anybody’s, stalked a butterfly in the clover. And there, beneath the shade of the arbor, sat Mycroft. Quietly, I took a seat beside him.

“The devil take those crickets!” he declared.

“Not crickets, cicadas.”   


“Well, whatever they are,” he said, “They’re a damn nuisance.”   


“‘ _When the fierce sun grows hot with parching ray, and woods resound the shrill cicada’s lay_ …’ as Virgil said.”

“Virgil said nothing of the kind.”

“He did. It’s in the Ecologues, I believe. Possibly the Georgics. One of those ones about raising sheep and the quality of Roman soil.”

“Virgil did not say  _anything_  in English.”

“Oh, yes? Thanks very much, I didn’t know.”

“ _Inde ubi quarta sitim caeli collegerit hora et cantu querulae rumpent arbusta cicadae—_ if you must torment me with poetry, at least do it properly.”    


There are times, when speaking to my brother, that we seem  _terribly_  related, and I wonder very much why Watson puts up with me.   


“As a matter of fact,” I began, “that is not why I came out here.”   


“One must be thankful for small miracles.”   


“Mycroft—“ I hesitated. Though we do not brim with fraternal affection, my brother and I have always maintained a respectful policy of non-interference in one another’s lives, a policy which I was loathe to violate. I thought of Watson, and of poor Emily, and steeled myself for confrontation. 

“You cannot carry on behaving as you have, being so  _exacting_  of the household. I should rather like to keep someone on for more than six weeks at a time. And the fact is, you go too far. You’re belligerent and rude and… it makes me rather ashamed.”   


“You? Or Dr. Watson?”

“Both of us.”   


“I see. Sherlock,” as he spoke, my brother leaned forward in his chair, resting both hands on the knob of his walking stick, “why do you suppose I behave the way that I do?”

“I don’t have to suppose. You’ve made yourself quite clear. You dislike this house. You dislike the library; you dislike the garden; you dislike your bedroom curtains. You dislike the climate; you dislike the coastline; you dislike the village and all the people who live in it. In sum, you loathe this place and whoever is responsible for choosing Hollinghurst Cottage as the location to wait out your twilight years, he did a  _very_  poor job.”   


Mycroft did not look at me. Across the garden, which my brother professed to despise, the bees were humming in the lilac bush. The cat, sprawling itself on the footpath, pawed at the shadows cast by sunlight through the arbor. The wind picked up and for a moment the cicadas were drowned out by the rustling of the tree tops.   


“Do you remember the case of William Marrow?”    


“William Marrow.... The magistrate?”   


“ _Former_  magistrate, yes.”   


“Yes,” I said, “I recall he was forcibly ejected from his seat in disgrace after a scandal. Something to do with bribery, the pocketing of court fees, something to that end?” 

“Indeed.” 

I failed utterly to see what William Marrow had to do with our present situation. My brother, casting a sideways glance at my person, noted my bafflement with a weary  _tsk_. I made a mental note never again to  _tsk_  at Watson.

“You will recall,” Mycroft continued, “whose testimony was invaluable in the trial—and, indeed, who was responsible for bringing the matter seriously to the attention of the law? Not the bailiffs, nor those who’d been forced to pay more than their due—they had  _suspicions_ , but no evidence. No, it was his housekeeper and his maid-of-all-work.” 

“I see,” I said, for now I did.   


By moving to Hollinghurst Cottage with Watson and myself, Mycroft had joined a household of William Marrows. Instead of court fees, we stole kisses in the lumber room, bashful glances at the dinner table, sweet-nothings as we passed one another in the hall. Our offenses, though victimless, could just as easily lead to disgrace with a word from a keen-eyed servant.

“You suspect John and me of being indiscreet?”   


“I do not have to suspect; I observe. Who  _did_  suspect were four of our last five parlor maids and at least one of our previous housekeepers. And I should rather send them running from this house, wailing about the pernicious old man who gives a dressing down for putting the teaspoons a quarter of an inch too far to the left, than have them go about with certain ideas in their heads concerning a certain public figure and his long-time… friend.”   


“Mycroft, John and I have spent the better parts of our lives living together with nothing untoward happening. I should think we know how to conduct ourselves as if that were still the case.”

“Perhaps  _you_  do,” Mycroft asserted, “You have forty years experience in looking at him with lover’s eyes and sober visage. The same cannot be said for Dr. Watson. He wears his heart on his face. A fact you know well, dear brother, as that’s what prompted you to have this conversation, unless I am very much mistaken?”   


He was not mistaken, though I did not give him the satisfaction of saying as much. I did not take kindly to being reminded of the decades I had spent in Watson’s company with no fond return of love, with only my brother as reluctant confessor. It was no fault of Watson’s that he did not perceive or return my affection, which I kept hidden away like a treasure. Only after many years and the shock of the War were we able to shed the unimportant trappings of pride and convention, and be to one another what we truly are.    


The effect of such delayed gratification, I will admit, is to transform a sexagenarian Doctor into a veritable Romeo and myself into a sort of brave knight, ready to strike down any who would say a cross word about my beloved. So riled, heedless of danger, I drew my sword and plunged:

“Is this all to say that you do not approve of two such overt degenerates as we?”

“No. Nor do I intend to antagonize the servants indefinitely. I have considered your problem, and it seems clear to me that if you and the Doctor are going to live comfortably… happily… then you must have a household which is, if not understanding, then at least ignorant. I am endeavoring to find such a staff.”

“…I see.”

The cat, who had grown tired of its sunbathing, pranced over to where we sat. Mycroft stretched his hand down and wiggled his fingers, enticingly. It gave his hand a cautious sniff, then, presumably satisfied, rubbed itself across his shins.

“It is not typical for a house of this size,” Mycroft continued, as if thinking to himself, “but perhaps a butler of a certain temperament might be the solution….”

I could not resist letting out a bark of laughter.

“Oh yes,” I chortled, “three single men and a butler of _certain_ temperament. That will undoubtedly ease suspicions around the village.”

“Hush! I’ll find a suitable arrangement soon enough. See if I don’t." 

“I should be a fool to doubt you, brother mine,” I said, and, giving him a pat on the shoulder as a farewell, I retired.

Truthfully, I was touched to hear Mycroft speak so determinedly about John, myself, and our continued happiness. Though I do not approve of his methods, I do appreciate his efforts to find us a staff which will make Hollinghurst Cottage a warm and loving home for many years to come. Knowing my brother, he will do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The British Isles have exactly one native species of cicada: the New Forest Cicada. It’s considered endangered and the sound it makes is much higher, more shrill than the cicadas with which US readers may be familiar. In fact, it sounds [just terrible.](https://youtu.be/A0YN_ctjL6I)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson contemplates the changes in his relationship with Holmes and others.

November, 1920

The other night, Sherlock revealed to me that this Christmas will mark the longest he and Mycroft have ever spent in the same household. This is not surprising, considering their difference in ages, but I was struck by the enthusiasm in his voice when he stated it. A certain pride in their newfound amicability.

It is amusing to see the two of them together. They look more alike now and it is much easier to spot a family resemblance in their manner, or in a turn of phrase. I am sure Sherlock would call this an erroneous deduction, but they both have the most curious pronunciation of the word ‘crown’, which I am certain must be some inherited, Holmesian anomaly.

I believe Mycroft’s spirits have improved overall, though I am not sure. He is a difficult man to read and I seem to have a particular knack for blundering into a scene of melancholy with an unwelcome remark about how jolly the weather is. I would do better to use Sherlock as my barometer. As in all things, he is uncannily perceptive of his brother’s moods.One might not call them affectionate; still, it is gratifying to witness.

Mycroft is a curious man to live with, particular in his habits and, unlike Sherlock, adherent to a strict routine. That he cares for his brother, I have no doubt. Indeed, nothing about Sherlock’s oddity, nor about the queer nature of our relationship seem to faze the older Holmes in the slightest. He has even, through his own, peculiar methods, striven to shield us from infamy.

Sherlock and I do attempt to be discrete with our trysts, if not for Mycroft’s sake, then for propriety’s, or possibly, for our own. I should be lying, if I did not admit there is a certain, youthful thrill to be had waiting behind the summer house on a moonlit evening, listening carefully for the sound of a familiar footfall, or the quiet call of your name from your beloved’s lips. In the garden, in our garden, when night has pulled her veil across the sky and there is no one but the stars to see us, we—well, that is for us to know.

Sweeter still, than those physical pleasures, is the growing intimacy between us. We have always co-existed well, been sensitive to one another’s moods and whims, but now we are discovering storehouses of secrets and dreams and memories we did not know we longed to share. Thoughts, fears, which I hesitate to express even to my own self, spring readily to my lips in his presence. It is a humbling and miraculous thing. In writing this, I am reminded of such a moment a few nights ago, which is so exemplary of our newfound communion that I feel I must include it in these haphazard memoirs.

It had been a cold and rainy day. The weather thwarted our plans for a summerhouse dalliance and left us scheming for a nocturnal _rendezvous_. We would meet at midnight, Sherlock decided. Ostensibly, as that was the surest hour at which even the most insomniac kitchen maid was sure to be asleep, but I suspect the romanticism of the witching hour appealed to my friend more than he might care to admit. I consented and we spent a dreary evening, mugging at one another across the library, watching the clock hands struggle onward at a glacial pace.

Around ten, we said our ‘goodnights’, retired to our rooms and waited. When the appointed hour arrived at last, I donned my dressing gown and made my way down the hall. Quietly, I pushed the door aside and crept inside. No sooner had I done so than something flew at my face. I let out a cry of alarm. Swatting at the projectile, I was relieved to discover it was merely a pillow.

“John? Is that you?” whispered Sherlock.

“Of course—“ I began, too loudly, and then again, more hushed, “of course it’s me. Who did you expect?”

“I thought it might be that cat again.”

Sherlock switched on the electric light, blinding us both for a moment. I shut the door behind me and, as my eyes adjusted to the glare, found him sitting upright in bed. His face bore the harried look of interrupted sleep. He smiled wearily, and held out his hand to me. I rushed to take it.

“The cat?” I asked.

“Yes. It seems to have a knack for opening my door. It comes in here, then cries to be let out again. I put it out… and so on.”

“The fiend,” said I, kissing his wrist, “the blackguard.”

“Sit down and behave.”

“Must I behave?”

“My dear doctor, you are incorrigible.”

In the ways of love, it does not take much to bring a blush to Sherlock Holmes’s cheek. I did say that he and I attempt to be discrete in our affair, but I’m afraid it is a newfound hobby of mine to embarrass the chap in my own, private ways. A pinch on the bottom in a narrow hall, a wink across the supper table, a quick, illicit kiss in the library while Mycroft’s back is turned: all of these are sufficient to convert the great, calculating automaton into a stammering schoolboy. I find the transformation bewitching.

Reader, I will spare you a detailed account of what followed. A few words will suffice to say that whatever age a man may be, he is only as old as he feels. And in spite of what my knees or hip may say the next morning, when Sherlock and I are in one another’s arms, I feel quite young again, indeed.

The golden moments like the one that followed are surely chief among life’s pleasures. The electric light had been switched off once again. The moonlight that blanketed the room was cozy and sacred. My mind spun with incoherent thoughts, while Sherlock babbled about preparing his bees for the coming winter, his opinions about our latest housekeeper, how we were all getting on this first year at Hollinghurst.

“Do you know, John,” said he as we sat together in the gathering darkness, “I believe my brother is beginning to enjoy living here.”

“Is he, indeed?”

“Well, in as much as he can be said to enjoy anything.”

“Mm.”

“Better, I suppose, to begrudgingly indulge in idleness, than to be bored by it,” he continued, his voice heavy with implications.

“You shan’t be bored,” I patted his thigh as I spoke, “Besides, you’ve got your hives to weather-proof, as you just said.”

“I wasn’t speaking of myself.”

“No?”

“No. I’m concerned about you, my dear fellow.”

“Me?” I asked.

“Yes, you’ve an air of uncertainty about you recently… as though you might alight, like a swarm suffering from the autumn dwindles.”

“Well… to be honest, I have felt a little melancholic lately.”

“Something to do with my brother?”

I considered Sherlock’s diagnosis and, suddenly, the thoughts which had been swirling indecipherably in my mind crystalized. I saw at once that I _was_ troubled, had been, somewhere in the unconscious recesses of my mind, for some time, and that Mycroft was, in manner of speaking, at the root of it. And yet these thoughts, which had been unknown even to myself until that very moment, Sherlock had read clearly. Forty years and his insight never fails to amaze me. I pulled him closer to me and pressed my face between his shoulder blades.

“In a way, yes.”

He twisted in my arms, half rolling onto his back in an effort to face me.

“Is it his manner? I have told him his condescensions will not be tolerated. Has he said something to you?”

“It isn’t that! It isn’t that. It doesn’t concern Mycroft, really. Not exactly. It—“ I sighed and gave what was undoubtedly a very weary smile. “It’s really very silly.”

“Won’t you tell me?“

“It’s—well—seeing you and Mycroft together… has led me to think of my own brother. About how things might have been, were he not…”

As soon as the words left my lips, I knew them to be the truth. Excepting the conversation regarding my pocket watch many years previous, where Sherlock had stumbled accidentally upon my late brother’s unhappy fate through his own deductions, we had never spoken about my unfortunate sibling. Indeed, I had not permitted myself even to think on him.

Mycroft bore little resemblance, if any, to my brother—neither physically, nor in spirit. All the same, his presence in Sherlock’s life served to highlight the absence in my own. In joining them at Hollinghurst, I found myself suddenly confronting thoughts and griefs which I had spent the better part of my life ignoring.

That night, in the safety of Sherlock’s embrace, I permitted myself to remember. He listened with seemingly limitless patience as I recounted what I could about the man I had, for so long, held accountable for the dissolution and death of my family. My brother had seemed to me then a vindictive, selfish person. Perhaps age has made a fool of me, but I see him now as a fearful youth, overwhelmed by the responsibilities which my father’s early death had put upon his shoulders, and naturally susceptible, as it seems all we Watsons are, to the vices of drink and gambling. Unchecked and unfettered, where had he to fall, except into ruination?

“That sounds a very generous assessment,” said Sherlock, when I had finished my account.

“As he is not here to ask forgiveness, I suppose I have to offer it up. For my own sake.”

“You are a good man, my dear. Too good, by far, for the rest of us.” Now, it was my turn to blush. “If it is fraternal love you crave, you may take Mycroft free of charge.”

I could not help but laugh. And, bless him, for a laugh was exactly what I needed.

“Oh, no,” I said, “that responsibility is entirely yours. I don’t want him.”

“I’ll pay you ten pounds to make him a Watson and not a Holmes.”

“Ten pounds?”

“Twenty-five.”

“No sale.”

“Forty.”

“You’re a loon.”

“I love you terribly.”

“And I, you, loon. And I, you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes a friend.

January, 1921

In recent years, I have learned I have been severely mistaken about a great many things. I was mistaken in my faith that the balance of power in Europe was unshakeable. I was wrong to suppose that Man feared death more than he hated his enemy. I was wrong, too, to believe myself the sort of man who did not require companionship, even in the darkest hours. The list may well be endless. Yet, of all that I thought I knew, I am truly gratified to have been mistaken about Doctor John Watson.   


Upon our first acquaintance, Doctor Watson struck me as a dull, ordinary man, quite incapable of understanding such an original as my brother. The odds lay twenty to one that he was more interested in Sherlock as fodder for his stories, than as a friend. I pitied Sherlock for his devotion to this fortune-hunter and often thought to discourage him in his affections, but there is no telling Sherlock Holmes what to do. For twenty years I watched, listened, and kept my opinions to myself, until their falling out in 1902, which seemed to be the end of their curious association. I hoped I should never again have to hear the name of John Watson. Very mercifully, I was wrong. 

The War came, and, without exaggeration, changed everything. It made ghosts of us all. Every day, I expected the world to come to its senses, and every day it worsened. There was no solace from it. Even after Sherlock was recalled to London, my rooms in Pall Mall were more haunted than occupied; we drifted about with little to say to one another.

Then, one evening, when my thoughts were at their blackest, a letter arrived for me, addressed by none other than Dr. J. H. Watson. It was a remarkable letter, filled so precisely with what I did not know I needed to hear; things both difficult and true. It gave me words to cling to, and with them, I pulled myself out of the mire. I do not hope to explain the emotion one feels upon receiving such a letter from someone one has so thoroughly dismissed. ‘Sheepish’ does not begin to cover it. I owe him a great debt, which I expect I shall never satisfactorily repay.

Since coming to Hollinghurst, I have had the opportunity to become better acquainted with the Doctor, and I am increasingly convinced how very wrong I was in my first evaluation of him. While he may have some rather ordinary interests—he is, for example, the only member of our household to engage in those customary country sports of fishing and shooting—he is by no means an  _ordinary_  man. He is remarkably insightful, naturally well-liked, and completely free of the conniving nature which I had falsely ascribed to him. Better still, he seems to make my brother terribly happy.   


In sum, he is a good man, and while friendship is not something for which I have a talent, I have been endeavoring to earn his. This task has not been an easy one; I have been slow to learn that the best gestures of amicableness are not necessarily the  _best_  ones, but the ones best-suited to the recipient. He prefers to be told that the day ‘seems like good weather for shooting’ in a rather overt, suggestive manner, than to be driven out of the library by caustic cigar smoke, so that he may take refuge in the garden and there, make this discovery for himself. It takes all kinds to rule the world, as Mother used to say.

Together, we can play a passable game of chess and we share a general disinterest in my brother’s apiarian pursuits. Our conversation, such as it is, has always been somewhat lacking, and I gather from his demeanor that there is something about me which unsettles him. I had no suspicion as to what cause he had to be so unnerved, until a recent chance encounter illuminated this point.

It was late last night, as Duchess and I indulged my insomnia by walking the halls with a cigar, when something unusual caught my attention. A light, harsh and electric, seeping out around the library door. Supposing it was my brother, probably ruining his eyes at a microscope, I entered and was surprised to find, not Sherlock, but Doctor Watson, standing by the fireplace in his pajamas and dressing gown. In his hands was a remembrance of mine from Her Late Majesty: a carved conch with a silver mouthpiece. He regarded me with a look of sheepish surprise.

“Sorry to intrude, Doctor. I had thought to have my cigar in here. But I see I have disturbed you.”

“Not at all,” he answered and gestured to the arm chair nearest the hearth, “Please.”   


I took my appointed seat. Though the fire was out by that hour, the grate still gave off a faint warmth. Duchess, greedy creature that she is, curled up against it immediately.    


“It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”   


“Oh, yes, very,” Doctor Watson replied. He turned the shell over in his hands and then, as if startled to discover he was still holding it, he set it back on the mantelpiece. “Indian, isn’t it?”   


“Yes, an old relic of the Empire _for_ an old relic of the Empire.”   


He smiled at that, and said, “As I understand it, when it comes to relics, age is an asset, not a defect.”   


“It adds to their value, but not to their usefulness. I can’t even sleep properly anymore.”   


“Neither can I. Or, if I do, I’m awake again before dawn.”

“Which is this?” I asked, depositing my ash into the fireplace. “Up early or not yet to bed?”

“The latter.” 

“If you ask me, it’s these electric lights. You can’t dim them; it’s either on or off. Very difficult to get drowsy in full light.”

“Mm.”   


This is what I meant about our conversation. Electric lights and geriatrics. Not what one would call stimulating. Ordinarily, it was at this juncture that one of us would make an excuse for a swift departure; however, before I could think of something to say, Duchess leapt into my lap, demanding affection.   


“She’s taken quite a liking to you,” said the Doctor.   


“Yes, so she has. And she’s quite the imperious little dictator, too. Aren’t you, Duchess?”   


Duchess meowed, perhaps in assent, perhaps because I had not yet given in to her demands. A gentle scrub between the shoulders set her purring. Doctor Watson smiled again and then he did something quite remarkable: he walked to the chair opposite mine and  _sat down_.   


“Your brother’s quite glad that she’s settled in with you, instead of wanting to run in and out of everyone’s rooms at night. I didn’t mind it, personally—I’m content to leave my door open—but Sherlock… I think it unnerves him not to have the door shut.”   


“Yes, I believe he’s something of a light sleeper.”   


“I should say so,” Doctor Watson said, with a sort of knowing chuckle which hung in the air. A moment passed and then, as though stricken by his own words, he turned from me and began examining, with great intensity, his own fingernails.   


“I suppose you would know, better than any,” I agreed.   


“I’m terribly sorry.”   


It was at this moment that I grasped the reason for the Doctor’s apprehension around me. He turned to meet my gaze, his face flushed with embarrassment. He seemed to regard me as the executioner and he, the condemned.   


“You know, Doctor, I don’t believe I ever had the opportunity to thank you for the letter you wrote me year before last.”

“Hm? Letter? Oh, well… you needn’t—“

“Please, permit me to say this: Your words were a great comfort to me. What’s more, your letter made it clear just how fortunate my brother is to have you as his friend. I do not pretend to understand the sympathies which exist between you—I fear I was not made for romance—but I am very proud to be included in your household. I hope I should never give you any cause to think otherwise.”   


“Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you.”    


There was more emotion in his voice than I had anticipated. He extended his hand to me across the hearth rug and I gave him my own. We shook hands in what would have been a very picturesque gesture, were it not for Duchess complaining about being caught in the middle. I shooed her away and prepared at last to make my departure.

At that same moment, the hall door opened and Sherlock entered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, old man, I—Oh, hello, Mycroft. I didn’t expect to find you here,” said my brother, as though he had not just been listening at the keyhole. “Oughtn’t you to be in bed at this hour?”

A glance between the two of them made it clear I was intruding on what was meant to be a private meeting. Doctor Watson was positively scarlet and Sherlock was all but tapping his foot in impatience. I am still not certain exactly how long he had been waiting outside the door, but evidently he judged I had taken too long to say my piece.   


“Quite right you are, dear brother, quite right you are. Come along, Duchess.”

With that, Duchess and I made our way into the hall, leaving Doctor Watson and Sherlock to their happiness. How fortunate I am to count such fellows among my family and, perhaps someday, among my friends.


End file.
